If I Only Had AI 🎶
Belinda Vandervelvet is back, and still struggling to make nice
with Belinda Vandervelvet
I know it has been a hot minute since last I connected with y’all. A lot has happened this year, most notably, my wonderful pitbull, Tender Buttons, bit my hand when I tried to take a bowl of raw sirloin away from her. This unfortunate situation and the $147,000 surgery that followed were the result of yet another of my husband Dan’s ill-conceived jokes. At one point, I had to decide whether a box muzzle would be needed or if I should take the drastic step of moving forward with euthanasia. The behavior seemed the type that might never resolve itself. In the end, I decided both options were too extreme. I would give my husband a second chance.
More on that later.
Dan hasn’t been the same since we came back from our accidental gay cruise. He’s not able to perform in the bedroom, he’s cranky, and has taken up drinking Aperol spritzers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s almost like he’s going through menopause. And he’s been wearing my silky nightgowns to bed most nights. He says they’re much more comfortable than his boxers because they let his balls “breathe.” Not going to lie, it’s a bit weird, his sitting on the couch watching Jesse Watters Primetime in my black nightie with his full sleeve Nazi tattoo and chest hair peeking out of the nightie’s lacey, low-cut bust panel. Not quite sure what to make of it.
And I can’t tell you how very off-putting it is to see his junk dangling below the hemline when I’m trying to enjoy breakfast at our glass-topped table. I’m going to need to get larger placemats.
As I believe I mentioned last time, I got a huge demotion at work, thanks to Dr. Gleason, who had me downgraded to the duties and pay scale of an entry-level LPN, even though I’ve been a CMSRN for 12 years. This demotion was purportedly issued because of my refusal to treat Blacks, Hispanics, some Asians, and LGBTQ patients after Trump’s 2024 victory. After two weeks of refusing to partake in surgeries involving this caliber of individuals, Dr. Gleason, a libtard, saw to it I was “held accountable.” His words.
I was then relegated to inserting catheters, changing dressings, and emptying bedpans in the psych ward. This 2-year disciplinary demotion started a little over 11 months ago, and I was told I would not be reinstated as a surgical nurse until I changed my tune. Imagine everyone’s surprise when I did not change my tune. By the end of this probation, I will have changed 275,000+ bedpans, and you can bet I will still be whistling Dixie, right through the 2026 midterms and in 2028 when Trump runs for his third term as our country’s amazing leader.
Here’s a big fuck you to everyone on the hospital board who backed this demotion. There is no doubt in my mind that whoever replaces Pam Bondi will be hauling every one of their woke asses to a detention center in Texas.
By the way, here’s what actually went down. At the time of my supposed infraction, it was LEGAL for medical professionals to choose which patients they wanted to treat. Remember this… all DEI policies had become obsolete, per Executive Order 14151. Hello! Those policies were found to be unconstitutional by our president, with some of the first changes instigated by Andrea Lucas of the EEOC and by Pete Hegseth, both Trump appointees, of course. So how was it that this order didn’t apply to hospitals? Did hospitals have the authority to compel a medical professional to treat potential criminals, illegals, and morally corrupt individuals? I don’t think so.
No, in fact, they did not have that authority, and yet Bayview would lead everyone to believe it did, their employees, in particular. This infuriated me, and I spoke out often and loudly on the issue, usually within earshot of one of those undeserving patients they were wheeling into the OR. You know, Muslims, lesbians, pro-choice women, children of farmworkers, indigent elderly people, unemployed veterans, single mothers, gay men, drug addicts, Blacks, Hispanics. Have I missed anyone?
There is no way I was willing to waste my talents administering a life-saving procedure on a potential illegal alien, or anyone, for that matter, who did not follow the path of Christ. For this, I was accused of being cruel and insensitive. Cruel and insensitive? What?! Toward someone who was lying on a gurney, completely unconscious?!
Only a liberal would come up with a complaint that stupid.
No matter, there was nothing I could do about my demotion. The union refused to take up my grievance, and my rep had a difficult time suppressing a laugh when I explained the situation. As everyone knows, unions are a bunch of socialists, so I should never have expected them to be sympathetic. All they care about is people. Not the Bible, not the Executive Orders, and most certainly not the Constitution as reinvented by the Supremes’ conservative supermajority.
HR — also not a help. Their main concern is following the hospital’s pre-Trump protocol and trying to keep our medical system from collapsing after the massive cuts to Medicaid and Medicare. Yes, I admit it has been a difficult adjustment — no longer having to provide basic medical services to all those indigent people who pick vegetables, flip burgers, and clean the hospital. Fuck that. Why should they get next-to-free medical care? That is really beyond me.
And because I was never promoted to management, due to my inability to make nice with brown people (if, in fact, you could call them people), I don’t get to write the schedules or make the assignments at Bayview Medical Center. If I did, I’d have people treating their own kind. This is as it should be. We’d have a gay ward, a Muslim ward, and a ward for children whose parents have been sent to El Salvador (no Cozy Shack pudding for those kids, btw). And there would be a special wing for Blacks, with separate surgical facilities.
Well shit. For the time being, I have been relegated to the psych ward. Treating patients, that is.
Back to this week’s breaking news story: that thing that happened with my dog.
Last Sunday, I’d been in the kitchen chopping up all sorts of tasty stuff for a Japanese stir-fry (including a 16 oz. sirloin steak) when Dan entered, slapped me hard on the ass, then dug his chin into my shoulder as he looked to see what I was cooking, in the process triggering intense pain in my torn rotator cuff. He was inebriated, as usual, as he’d put back the better part of a 12-pack of Miller High Life while watching the Packers decimate the Bears. Grunting crudely in my ear, “Oh, baby,” as he leaned into me with all of his body weight (which is substantial at 285 lbs.), he began dry humping my Lululemon-clad caboose, which was still a tad sore from my recent Brazilian butt lift. All of this was taking place as I was trying to cut up meat for dinner. Dan’s unwanted affections threw me hugely off balance, resulting in my nearly slicing off my left thumb with the butcher knife.
Boy, was I pissed! Angrily, I tossed my $170 Wüsthof knife into our stainless steel sink, where it grazed the drain stopper before landing with a loud clank, the blade now badly nicked. Grrrrr! My right shoulder, fortunately, was not injured, so I threw it into Dan as hard as I could, something he was not prepared for. Fortunately, we have a galley kitchen with a counter directly across from the sink, and that saved his ass, though I don’t think the edge of the marble countertop hitting his L5 vertebra felt too good, because now he was pissed. “I was just flirting!” he bellowed, “Why do you have to be such a bitch?!” Flirting?! There was nothing sexy about his causing me to nearly slice off my thumb.
As luck would have it, our story did not make the cut for 48 Hours, as Dan did not hit the floor and bleed out from a fractured skull. We have, as of late, been heading in that direction, however — you know, one of those scenarios where the wife has reached her limit on the husband’s overdrinking, practical jokes, lack of sensitivity, and his failure to put his dirty socks in the hamper. Being the wronged spouse, she’s already gone through enough, right? She doesn’t feel like getting dragged through a messy divorce, potentially losing custody of their pit bull and teenage son, or having to fork out for alimony. I think we all know how this ends. Not well.
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I can’t lie. I do (occasionally) have dreams about Dan’s being in an accident, one where shoving is involved. But it’s just a dream. Is once a week “occasionally,” by the way?
His flirting spurned, Dan felt humiliated. He was not only experiencing a loss of wood, but the adrenaline rush from being shoved had sobered him up considerably — he suddenly had the wherewithal to make his next move. A wicked expression flashed across his face, and I’m not talking sexy wicked. Something bad was brewing.
In the middle of all of this drama was Tender Buttons. She sat innocently in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking up at us, wondering why her mommy and daddy were shouting, all the while lifting her nose high in the air to take in the scent of raw meat.
Then, without warning, Dan reached behind me and grabbed the bowl of chopped sirloin. He dashed over to the pooch’s feeding mat, grabbed her bowl of kibbles, and swapped it out with the sirloin. Tail wagging furiously, Tender Buttons couldn’t believe her luck. She buried her head in the bowl of this new and improved canine cuisine. The best meal ever — raw Wagyu sirloin!
I panicked. Fifty-eight dollars' worth of beef was rapidly being inhaled by my dog — we’d have nothing for dinner. Impulsively, I snatched the bowl away from Tender Buttons, attempting to salvage at least some of the meat. Growling and snarling ensued. OMG — what was I thinking? Although I had taken Tender Buttons to obedience school when she was a pup, I had clearly forgotten their first lesson, on “resource guarding” — a natural, survival instinct in all dogs — i.e., threatening, aggressive behaviors dogs use to retain possession of items like their food and resting areas. No one, and I mean not a single friend or family member, was surprised to hear that Tender Buttons had sunk her teeth into my hand. “You simply do not take meat from a growling dog,” my MIL annoyingly pointed out at our next Thanksgiving dinner, as she passed scraps to said dog under the table.
The bowl of sirloin, which had been in my right hand, went flying, not unlike a tennis ball coming off one of Serena Williams’ top-spin, two-handed backhands. It hit the kitchen cabinet with impressive force, splintering the cheap veneer, the IKEA crockery smashing to bits when it landed on the floor. As for my left thumb? Well, it was still in Tender Buttons’ mouth, and I’m talking, like no longer attached to my hand.
“Drop it!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, which prompted our well-trained pup to release the severed digit. The dog, at least, had learned something at Canine Academy. My thumb and its still-attached thenar eminence thudded onto the rug like one of Tender Buttons’ proudly retrieved sticks. Unfazed by the grim reality of the situation, Tender Buttons nonchalantly walked around me (and the pound of flesh no longer attached to my body), to scavenge for the morsels of beef scattered amongst the crumbled crockery. Her priorities were clear.
I held up my thumb-free hand and looked at it in horror, taking in the massive amount of damage she had inflicted. And then, WHAM! Down I crumpled to the floor, my head narrowly missing the counter as I fainted. Man and beast stood nearby, frozen, staring at my contorted, unconscious body covered in blood. Neither could fathom what they had done to bring on such a disaster.
Hysterical, Dan frantically scrounged around for a zip-lock bag in the cabinet near the stove. Once found, he scooped up my thumb and sealed it in the bag, then tossed the grisly body part into the fridge. There it sat next to a pound of thin-sliced, honey-roasted turkey from Safeway. Though he was starving after the big game, Dan refrained from grabbing a slice. Next, he straightened me out on the kitchen floor, tenderly putting a loaf of Dave’s Killer Bread under my head. He then called for an ambulance while Pupster devotedly cleaned all of my blood from the rug and off the cabinets. What a team.
Yes, I am a nurse, though I was an unconscious one at the moment I most needed a medical professional. This meant Dan (not a medical professional) was left to figure out what to do. Dan, as many of you well know, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had, for the last 7 years, been the assistant football coach at the middle school and, as such, had seen his share of bad accidents, many of them featuring copious amounts of blood. He’d also watched every episode of “Emergency!” as a teenager in the 70s.
I’m proud to say Dan did everything properly in responding to my trauma: firmly wrapping up my hand in a clean dish towel and trussing it up like a pork roast with butcher’s twine to thwart the blood loss. He then called 911.
He might have checked for a pulse and made sure I was breathing, but hey, no one’s perfect.
During the worst of this medical adventure, I was out like a light, and that was probably for the best. I didn’t come to, in fact, until the paramedics arrived 20 minutes later, sirens blaring. When I did regain consciousness, Dan was on the receiving end of a 10-minute stream of profanity-laden shaming and blaming. Not sure he deserved that. Five minutes of it probably would have sufficed.
Into the ambulance we went; there was a long, rough ride ahead, which took us through noisy inner city neighborhoods, and across an untold number of railroad crossings and pot holes. Fortunately, the paramedics had been cleared to administer fentanyl, and they kept my injured hand out of view, or I would have lost my mind from the pain and shock. The opioids were fantastic — the ride to the hospital was like a flashback to that 2016 concert I saw at The Fillmore with Tom Petty and his first band, Mudcrutch. Truly one of the best concerts ever, even though I had to rub elbows with a bunch of San Fran liberals.
My fav Mudcrutch tune: “I don't scare easy for no one.” 🎶
Imagine my surprise when, upon arriving at the emergency room, I was greeted by my nemesis: hand surgeon, Dr. Jay Gleason. Gleason was the only orthopedic surgeon on staff who could perform the type of microsurgery needed for a replantation. Someone had thought to call ahead and have him meet us in the ER — someone who was aware of my disastrous relationship with him had given me a bogus name in order to get him to come in on his day off. Gleason had just made his way through ER security when my ambulance drove up. He seemed genuinely surprised to see me, and then became furious with the triage nurse when he realized that I was “Maria von Trapp,” the woman he’d been called in to treat. His hatred of me was well disguised, however, and no one (except me) seemed to notice the subtle grimacing and teeth grinding. I’m an expert on microexpressions, by the way, having seen every episode of “Lie To Me” on Hulu. Sadly, I have no credentials for all that expertise.
This was about the time I took to some serious praying. I prayed that Dr. Gleason would be capable of setting aside his disdain for me before heading into the operating room. I prayed that my severed thumb was in good enough shape to be reattached. I prayed that JD Vance and Erika Kirk would finally get together, and that Usha would be sent to India where people like her belonged. How could we possibly have a Hindu as First Lady?
I knew this: I was going to have to get super clear with my maker on what I needed to survive this calamity, or things were not going to end well.
“Dear God, please provide me with a doctor capable of reattaching all those bones, tendons, nerves, and blood vessels in my hand, someone with stamina and exceptional skills, whose team includes a great anesthesiologist and any of the nurses that don’t hate me. And if no White surgeons are available, please let Dr. Gleason be the guy.” I knew it, God knew it: Dr. Gleason was the guy I needed, even though he’s Black. And light in his loafers.
“People who know what they want get what they want” — this old adage came to mind as I set myself to praying. Ironically, this was my mother’s favorite saying. Hey, Mom, if that’s the case, how in the hell did I end up with Dan, you stupid bitch?
BTW, my mother was an avid reader of Ms. Magazine and a huge fan of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, and Bella Abzug. All Jews. How was I born into that living hell? Thank God, my father, rest his soul, got the hell out of her household when I was 11, and settled in with Doris, the nice Polish lady on our cul-de-sac. Doris became available after her husband, Leon, had a coronary while grilling steaks out on his driveway. Doris was great. She saw to it there was always a hot meal on the table when my dad returned from the Cadillac plant, and she joined him every Sunday at his Missouri Synod Lutheran Church. Doris was a righteous Christian woman who knew she damn well better obey my father. And she always wore pantyhose and a bra.
I prayed fervently that Gleason would take on this surgery. If he didn’t, I’d have to ask my nail technician for a 10% discount whenever I came in for gel nails.
While I was in the midst of my praying, there, in the hallway just outside the exam room, were Dr. Gleason and the head of ER, discussing my situation. There was some heated back-and-forth, Gleason pointing out the bad blood between him and me, and painting a picture of how this might affect the outcome of the surgery. His big concern: my lack of confidence in him, because he was Black and gay. He was worried that if the surgery didn’t go exactly as I expected, I would sue him and the hospital. The surgery was tricky, and there were no guarantees that I would regain full use of my thumb. Hell, it had been chewed off by a pit bull. It was a mess. Gleason was afraid of becoming a victim of my bigotry.
Dr. Chen listened sympathetically (the bitch), then suggested I be required to write a letter before the surgery was approved — a letter that included an apology for having made disparaging remarks about Gleason’s ethnicity and sexual orientation, and for having suggested to other staff members that these things somehow made the doctor a lesser surgeon. In this letter, I would be expected to convince the hospital that I had confidence in Dr. Gleason’s skills and believed he could do his job professionally. As Dr. Chen would point out to me, I had a choice: get on board with Dr. Gleason as the surgeon or wait for a White surgeon to become available. My thumb, my choice, but she would not have me blaming him post-surgery. He had a sterling reputation to uphold. I did not, she reminded me.
Dr. Chen then cheerfully noted that since I had full use of my right hand, it should be no problem for me to type the letter and sign a Consent to Surgery form. And she had a notary on hand, even at this late hour, who would be available to witness all of it.
Both doctors knew that time was of the essence and were thus tightening the tourniquet, so to speak. They would entertain no hemming and hawing about White surgeons versus Black, or any of the other bellyaching I was renowned for. Surgery prep had to start in the next hour, or there was a chance I’d lose my thumb altogether.
So there I was. Trapped. Maria von Trapped.
Was I capable of setting aside everything I believed in to move forward with a gay, Black surgeon? And then there was my having to kowtow to that Chinese hospital administrator. That was really beyond the pale, having to deal with a Chinese woman. Running a hospital, that was a man’s job. Didn’t anyone read the bible? I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for any of this.
Then I looked down at my hand — a bloody stump, all bandaged up and throbbing. My pride or my hand? My pride or my hand? Which would it be?
I ruminated on this for all of two minutes, then a vision of trying to take a big casserole out of the oven popped into my head. It was a divine revelation. I needed that opposable thumb on my left hand, and it had to be strong. My family needed this sustenance, my church needed those casseroles for their holiday gatherings in the fellowship hall. I needed Dr. Gleason’s surgical skills.
Then, I remembered ChatGPT’s AI Writing Assistant. Halle-fucking-lujah. The clouds parted, a rainbow appeared in the sky, I was saved! I would not have to write one fucking thing I didn’t believe in. The AI Writing Assistant would fix everything: the content, the tone, my attitude, the profanity. I could do this, even when cognitively impaired from the opioids. Thank you, Sam Altman.
And so, after telling Dr. Chen I was agreeing to move forward, her nursing assistant delivered an iPad to my bedside. I then set to work.
Here’s my original letter, followed by the cleaned-up version, the one I actually submitted to Dr. Chen.
3/28/26
To: Dr. Jay Gleason, hand microsurgery specialist
From: Belinda Vandervelvet
Re: Your services; my surgery
Dear Dr. Gleason:
Not going to lie. I really hated your guts after you had me sacked from my position as an OR nurse. I also despise the fact that you are gay and I hate the thought of you having sex with another man. Your homosexual acts are contrary to God's design. Everyone knows that. Anal sex is disgusting and sinful, as is oral sex. If you don’t repent, you are heading straight to hell. And how can you help anyone if that’s where you’re at?
Then there is the issue of your being Black. As has been well-documented, Blacks are intellectually inferior, a danger to society, and uncivilized. How you ever made your way through medical school is truly a miracle and that is why I am consenting (if but reluctantly) to your doing my surgery.
If God has allowed you to pass your boards, then he must be OK with my taking advantage of your skills and training to reclaim the use of my left thumb. Not sure how this came about, a Black man becoming a renowned hand surgeon, but as the Maria Von Trapp sang in the Sound of Music, “I must have done something good.” You have obviously done something worthwhile in your life to be the exception in this White dominated field of medicine.
I am, thereby, consenting to your performing surgery on my left hand, as well as reluctantly placing my confidence in you, but only because there are no White surgeons available to take this on. I would have waited for a White surgeon, but time is of the essence and I really have no choice but to put my faith in you or lose the use of my left thumb altogether.
You’ve ruined my career, but I’m hoping you can at least salvage my hand, which I need for gardening, cooking and “beating the meat” for my husband. God is fine with hand jobs, by the way.
Get on with it, dude. I cannot wait any longer.
Thank you and fuck you,
Belinda VandervelvetNeedless to say, this one 👇🏼 got me the surgery. Truly a miracle.
3/28/26
To: Dr. Jay Gleason, hand microsurgery specialist
From: Belinda Vandervelvet
Re: Your services; my surgery
Dear Dr. Gleason:
I am writing to confirm my consent for you to perform surgery on my left hand, and to offer a sincere and unreserved apology.
In my previous message, I used offensive, discriminatory, and deeply inappropriate language regarding your sexual orientation and your race. Those statements were wrong, harmful, and disrespectful. I take full responsibility for what I said, and I am truly sorry for the hurt and offense my words may have caused you both personally and professionally.
There is no excuse for that kind of language. I allowed my anger and frustration to override my judgment, and I regret it. You deserve to be treated with dignity and respect, and I failed to do that.
I am grateful that you are willing to provide care despite my earlier behavior. I respect your expertise, and my priority now is to move forward in a professional and respectful way as your patient, with the goal of restoring the function of my hand.
Please let me know if there is anything further I should do to prepare for the procedure or if you need anything from me.
Thank you for your time, your professionalism, and your care.
Sincerely,
Belinda VandervelvetI am now home and recovering beautifully. I’ve got three months off, then it’s back to bedpans. Life is good.
“If I Only Had AI” I could while away probation At the nurses’ station, Disparaging my boss To my friends, I’d be bitchin’ But now there’s heat in the kitchen If I’d only had AI 😭 I’ve unraveled every friendship At work and on the homefront With bigotry and hate Speaking thoughts like “you’re a fucker” I offend even a trucker With my little, tiny brain Oh, I, could tell you why That Whites are better than Blacks I could make up shit that’s n’er been Proved before And then I'd grandstand, and bullshit more I am such a dumb stool pigeon My head full of religion And political claptrap And perhaps I’m a failure And will be living in a trailer If I’d only had AI 😭